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THE OLD HOUSE 

AND OTHER STORIES 



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BlancKc idlers Orfcnian^ 


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Copyright, 1910, 

By Blanche Sellers Ortmann 


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THE STORIES 


Page 


The Old House .... 11 

The Boxwood Flats ... 21 

Bar-Gee 31 

The Soul of a Violin ... 43 

The Story of the Goldfish . . 51 










THE OLD HOUSE 


\ 



THE OLD HOUSE 


OR a hundred years the old 
House has been weathering 
the mountain ^orms or bask- 
ing in the lovely Virginia 
sunshine, proud of the fadt 
_ that its red bricks were made 
W on the place, from the red clay 
(jp which lies so plentiful all about it, 
m coloring the hilltops and making 
W the roads look like red ribbons 
tying the mountains to the valleys, 
y The blinds, great green eyelids, 
refledt the life of the inmates, in the 
morning spreading wide in a spirit of 
up-and-about-ness, during the afternoon 
nap time drowsily shutting in the cool 
rooms, at sundown opening again for the 



II 


THE OLD HOUSE 


afternoon tea and visiting hour. The 
whole House, with its air of quiet dignity 
and breeding, seems to say: “Why rush 
or hurry? There is time for all.” 

Bless its old heart, if we could 
count years as it can, we too might 
be peaceful and re^ful. But our lives 
are so short, we come and go so fa^, 
no wonder at times the old House seems 
looking down on us with sadness; for 
surely the graveyard in the meadow near 
by tells the ^ory of man’s short exig- 
ence. The happy, merry people whose 
voices once made the walls of the old 
House ring re^k there under the myrtle 
and boxwood, watched over by the 
nightingale and whip-poor-will. The 
old head^ones, moss and ivy covered, 
lean down toward their dead lovingly, 
as though wishing to get nearer to them. 


12 


THE OLD HOUSE 


But what mu^ the old House think, 
now that it has telephones on each 
floor, and flaring gas where soft candle- 
light used to flicker, making exaggerated 
shadows on the low ceilings. And 
horror of horrors, a rushing, snorting 
whirlwind of an automobile rushes up 
to the old horse block! Gho^s of 
horsemen can fairly be seen riding 
hurriedly in every direcftion, indignant 
at such intrusion, while the red brick 
walk, with its border of boxwood, 
scorns the noisy intruder with its brass 
lamps all a-shining, and tells of the 
days when the stately coach with its 
load of pretty maids and matrons all 
a-flutter passed by on its weekly trip 
to town. Now with this new, swiftly- 
moving, malodorous machine, the trip 
is made daily, and who can say if the 


13 


THE OLD HOUSE 


maids be pretty or not, so much like 
animated sacks of wool do they look 
in their cloaks, hoods, and goggles. 

It is in the evening, when the cres- 
cent moon hangs low, that the old 
House talks to the oaks, living over 
the days when it held its fir^ young 
couple, rejoicing with them at the fork’s 
coming, caring for the little ones as they 
toddle about the great white-pillared 
porches, which shade them from too 
much sun, watching them grow into 
manhood and womanhood, and finally 
sending the sons to war with pride and 
high hope, though deploring the cruel 
and unnecessary strife between brothers 
that should have been settled without 
bloodshed. Because of the spirit of 
dissension still harbored in the hearts 
of our people, for many years the South 


14 


THE OLD HOUSE 


has been crippled and disheartened and 
North and South have been divided. 
Time alone can heal these differences and 
make us one again. 

This the old House foresaw, and it 
opened wide its portals to welcome 
a Northern family. Being all-wise, it 
knew that all men are brothers and that 
between them, God’s fine^ handiwork, 
there should be no dissension. This 
should be left for the dwellers of the 
under -worlds, that are not so high on 
the ladder of life as is man. 

Never does the old House hold its 
head quite so high as when the pink- 
coated horsemen gather with their 
hounds and thoroughbreds for a cross- 
country run. Returning to the hunt 
breakfa^, they are greeted with the 
hospitable groaning of the table laden 


15 


THE OLD HOUSE 


with the weight of its goodies — great 
Virginia hams, freshly roamed and melt- 
ing under the knife; the Brunswick ^ew, 
for which the housewife has been pre- 
paring many days, sending negroes to hunt 
squirrels and to seledt the special corn 
and tomatoes that go to the making of 
the world’s be^ breakfa^ dish; and from 
the kitchen at the end of the gallery, 
steaming hot beaten biscuits to be eaten 
with gold-sweet butter. The mint juleps 
are drunk beside crackling fires, and 
“sport” and “good cheer” are the watch- 
words. The old House looks down 
approvingly on the happy company, for 
it has come into its own, sheltering in 
these later days kind, cheery people 
that respedt its past glories and love its 
present homelike spirit, for to them 
its every ^ick and ^one spell Home. 


i6 


THE OLD HOUSE 


We drink your health, dear old House. 
May the future hold as much for you as 
the pa^. May you continue to sleep 
peacefully under the oaks, dreaming 
happy dreams, and under^anding life 
as only one of your great age can. 



17 



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THE BOXWOOD FLATS 



THE BOXWOOD FLATS 



LOOK up from my book and 
(’the cool corner of the veranda, 
conscious of a very busy, noisy 
life in the great boxwood trees 
• at either side of the brick walk. 
For many bird families hve 
among the comfortable, shady 
branches; and I am reminded of a 
tenement house in the Ea^ End, 
as all the bird families are large and the 
making of their living is uppermo^ in 
their Uttle heads. 

The robins have the top flat, the 
thrushes the fir^ floor up, and the noisy 
catbirds the ground floor. If by any 
chance Father Robin enters the Thrush 
apartment, there is a dreadful fuss. The 


21 


THE BOXWOOD FLATS 


families in the other flats all take a hand 
in reproving the gentleman for his care- 
lessness, and it takes many minutes ere 
all is peaceful and quiet again. 

The green opening or door of the 
robin flat is large and much worn, for 
the husky baby robins eat their weight 
in worms each day, and keep their lov- 
ing parents more than busy coming and 
going with their bills full of goodies. 
The catbird has time to sit on his door- 
^ep and sing to his little wife in mode^ 
gown of Quaker gray, encouraging her 
to ^ay on her ne^. He himself darts 
off only to return with a titbit in the 
shape of a fat fly for her enjoyment. 
The thrush family are very well behaved, 
minding their own business, but always 
keeping a jealous eye upon Minnie, my 
Scotch terrier. Whenever she walks 


22 


THE BOXWOOD FLATS 


across the lawn in the direction of the 
flats, they dart down in front of her nose 
with a cry half of fear and half of play. 
They always fly away from the ne^, 
flopping on the ground as if hurt, to 
attracft the dog’s attention, and leading 
her by ^ratagem to the farther end of the 
garden. Then, with a tantalizing chirp, 
they fly back to their ne^. 

When the shadows grow long, the 
proud parents take the little ones out for 
a lesson in flying. How patient they are 
with the clumsy fluff-balls that cling 
to the lower branches and squeal, fearing 
to let go and tru^ the half-grown wings. 
The parents, in a near-by tree, coax and 
shame them into trying, until they drop 
off one limb and flop feebly to the next. 
This is the hour my dog is locked up, for 
otherwise great would be the tragedy. 


23 


THE BOXWOOD FLATS 


the little fluff-balls are so very helpless. 

I am certain the mother and father 
birds know I take this precaution, for 
they repay me in song, and become 
exceedingly tame, allowing me to peep 
into their ne^s without fear, and answer- 
ing my call as would a trained canary. 
Often they fly down near my head and 
accompany me on my walk through the 
garden. Their httle beady eyes notice 
my every motion, and they show off by 
bullying and chasing the hedge sparrows 
we meet in our walk, seeming to say: 
“Get out of our way, you disrespedtful 
birds. Don’t you see the Mi^ress out 
for a walk?’’ The poor little hedge 
sparrows hurry and scurry to the neared 
tree, cocking their tiny heads to one side, 
as if saying: “Why aU this excitement? 
She’s not so much!’’ 


24 


THE BOXWOOD FLATS 


The Japanese mimosa tree is in blos- 
som and so is the trumpet vine, both of 
which attracft the humming bird in his 
coat of many colors. His beautiful wings, 
with their rapid motion, gli^en in the 
sunlight like miniature rainbows. When 
you are favored with a peep into his 
ne^, you think it a Grange place to 
keep quinine pills, for the resemblance 
between these and the little eggs is very 
striking, both having the same shape, 
size, and color. I disUke to think of this 
lovely dream-like bird as one of the mo^ 
bloodthir^y of the feathered tribe, but a 
fight between two humming birds always 
means death to one, for their long bills 
are as sharp as darning needles, and they 
are expert fencers. 

Idling in my easy chair, I li^en to the 
love-making of a pair of doves that live 


25 


THE BOXWOOD FLATS 


high up in the tree at the end of the 
veranda. They never seem to tire of 
love or the telling of it. They are so 
busy making love that they have not 
had time to build a sub^antial ne^, and 
after each ^orm I look with fear at their 
loosely put together home. Love, it is 
said, makes the world go round, and it 
mu^ likewise be love that keeps the 
doves’ ne^ in the tree, for there seems 
to be nothing else that is doing so. 

The early evening is the swallows’ 
play time. They dart and chase one 
another around the house top, fairly 
shrieking with delight. And when the 
moon rises, the plaintive call of the whip- 
poor-will comes up from the glen. He is 
a solitary fellow, never coming near the 
house, although I feel he serves with 
the nightingale as a night watchman. 


26 


THE BOXWOOD FLATS 


I find myself growing sleepy, and as I 
glance over to the Boxwood Flats, it is 
apparent that for hours the occupants 
have been asleep, dreaming of the early 
worm and of the happy sunshine that 
to-morrow holds for them. 

Good night, my friends. May there 
be another day for us to meet and enjoy 
ourselves. We are all a part of the great 
scheme, each a cog in the wheel of 
De^iny. Man is prying into the secrets 
of your lives and habits, endeavoring 
to solve the my^ery of your migratory 
flight. Where did you obtain the knowl- 
edge of the compass which enables you, 
after a journey of hundreds of miles, to 
find the very tree that la^ year held your 
ne^? And where do you keep the speed 
that makes it possible for you to travel a 
mile a minute? Can it be you have 


27 


THE BOXWOOD FLATS 


found an air current that encircles the 
globe, carrying you to any part of the 
earth you desire to reach? Thus far you 
have guarded well your secret from the 
naturali^s. 

Mayhap, my Boxwood Flatters, you 
will confide in me, if I promise not to 
raise your rent. 



28 


BAR-GEE 



BAR=QEE 



AM only a horse but if men 
I could undersitand all the joy 
of being a thoroughbred with 
a record of 1:21, they would 
not say so pityingly that 
horses have almo^ human intel- 
ligence, for in possessing horse 
sense we have a gift that is 
ju^ as great. 

The fir^ years of my colthood were 
spent under a trainer’s eye. As the 
months passed, he developed in my grow- 
ing limbs the speed that was my birth- 
right. Coming as I do from a long line 
of ari^ocrats, my name was entered 
early for the Great American Derby. 
When that day came, my heart was so 


31 


BAR-GEE 


full of the spirit of the race, I surprised 
myself as well as my trainers. Then 
followed three years of a hard profes- 
sional career, all that time being spent 
on the flat and on the ^eeplechase track. 
I traveled from city to city, making 
and breaking records, until my health 
failed, and I was sold to a kindly gentle- 
man who rode me in the city parks. It 
was humiliating at times to have to run 
with the ordinary park hacks one meets 
on the bridle paths; but for my maker’s 
sake, for my ma^er was always good to 
me, I would hold back and try to make 
it “sporty” coming in at the finish. 

One day my feet fairly danced with 
joy, for again I was to be trained for a 
real race to be held at one of the country 
clubs. My trainer and I would go to the 
parks early, before the police were on 


32 


BAR-GEE 


duty, for they didn't seem to know the 
difference between a sporty run and a 
flighty-headed runaway. My legs were 
bandaged to keep them in condition 
under the extraordinary work and ^ain, 
and as I looked back over my flanks, they 
seemed daily to grow in muscle and 
shapeliness with the vigorous exercise. 
Each muscle and nerve quivered, anxious 
to show what it was capable of doing. 

At la^ the long looked for day came. 
The grand ^and was full of people, 
and as my ma^er patted my neck and 
smoothed down my slender legs, picking 
up each hoof to look into it for trouble, 
he whispered into my ear, “Good luck, 
Bar-Gee, old boy! Go in and win, and 
show them what a good horse can do.” 

I found it hard to keep all four feet 
on the ground at once, my heart was so 


33 


BAR-GEE 


light and happy, and I fear I gave some 
little trouble at the po^, the old plugs 
were so slow in coming up. My racing 
blood urged me to be off. Every drop 
of it was dancing and crying for the 
sport. At la^ the parting wire flew up, 
and we were off. I fetched myself 
very close to the ground, making no 
false moves, and the earth danced away 
under my flying feet. My jockey clung 
to the snaffle and never used the whip. 
I could hear the other horses coming 
after me, breathing and snorting, their 
jockeys all using whips and spurs. By 
this time I had but one thought — to keep 
in the lead and to win, win, win! As we 
turned the half-mile po^ my jockey put 
his whip on me. This angered me, for I 
was only waiting to come a little nearer 
the field so the finish would be more 


34 


BAR-GEE 


brilliant before my ma^er. I knew he 
had sugar in his pocket. We pulled into 
the home ^etch, and my hoofs fairly 
sang on the turf. The people in the 
grand ^and jumped to their feet and 
cheered as I came under the wire ju^ 
twenty feet ahead of second. It took 
me a quarter of a mile beyond that to 
rftop, for once my in^indt for racing 
was aroused, the blood of my ance^ors 
asserted itself, and I hated knowing it 
was all over. 

Wreaths of flowers were hung around 
my neck, and 1 was walked up and down 
in front of the judges and the grand ^and. 
I wanted so to get to my master and talk 
it all over with him, with my nose in his 
loving hand. I was so glad I had won 
the big silver cup I even allowed his 
women folk to talk baby talk to me. 


35 


BAR-GEE 


which is, of course, foolish — and besides, 
I hadn’t forgotten the sugar. 

During that autumn 1 was shipped 
down to my maker’s e^ate in Virginia, 
where the horses are all trained for fox 
hunting and not for speed. I enjoyed a 
few runs, but the hunters do not know 
what this sport is; their game evidently 
is not to see how fa^ they can go or how 
high they can jump, but how close they 
can keep to the dogs without Pepping on 
them. It always makes me angry to be 
held in, so I do not make good as a hunter. 
Moreover, I have developed a cough, 
which makes it hard for me to breathe, 
and being infedtious, compels me to 
spend my days alone in an open field. 

I frequently have friendly chats over 
the fence with the other horses, but it 
is unsafe to have us together. I mu^ 


36 


BAR-GEE 


confess my heart is sad when my ma^er 
rides by on his big hunter. I hate that 
horse, and if my heels could reach him, 
he would not put on such airs and lord it 
over me. Of course I am not jealous, for I 
know my ma^er loves me, and I often 
hear him giving orders for my comfort; 
but I am never taken out now. My 
cough is growing worse, and I feel I am 
getting old. 

One night there was great excitement 
because a drunken negro had ^olen me 
and sold me for twelve dollars. Think of 
the indignity! My blue-blooded ance^ors 
mu^ have turned in their graves or ^ood 
on their hind legs with indignation if 
they knew it. I was taken many miles 
away and shut up in a lot surrounded by 
a five-rail fence. When I was left alone, 
I jumped the fence and Parted for home. 


37 


BAR-GEE 


The going was hard, as I was impatient 
to get home again, and my cough had 
made me feeble. I wanted so to ^op and 
re^ by the cool roadside where the grass 
looked fresh and green, but I did not 
dare, for I knew I should be missed. At 
la^ I saw the Blue Ridge Farm tables. 
How good they looked to me! I had ju^ 
length enough to whinny to my friends 
in the paddock as I trotted into the 
^able, tired, but happy and contented. 

Now I am living on the be^ of the 
land, and as 1 re^ under the big che^- 
nut tree in the paddock, my thoughts 
run back to the days when my jockey 
slept in my ^all to keep me safe from 
foul play. I see myself, blanketed, 
ready to appear before the judges, and 
impatiently waiting while my jockey 
is weighing in. The grand ^nd is gay 


38 


BAR-GEE 


with music and flags. The light saddle 
is tossed across my back. A race is 
before me. Ah! those were the happie^ 
moments of my life. 

The races are all run now — all but 
one, and that will be the run over to 
the Happy Hunting Ground. I hope 
when the la^ wire flies up, I shall be 
brave and full of hope, and go in as a 
thoroughbred should. 



39 



THE SOUL OF A VIOLIN 




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THE SOUL OF A VIOLIN 

TRADIVARIUS was at work 
in his dingy workshop, putting 
his very heart into the violin 
he was making. The wood 
had come from the North and 
was well seasoned. It seemed 
to throb and pulsate with life 
under his hands, refledting and 
answering every sound that 
floated in through the open 
window. When the violin was finished, 
Stradivarius placed the insftrument in its 
oil bath as tenderly as a young mother 
bathes her new-born babe. The red- 
brown varnish spread on smoothly, 
filling every pore of the wood without 
^iffening the vibrations that were to 



43 


THE SOUL OF A VIOLIN 


sound through the world for centuries, 
and under loving fingers tell in a volume 
of tone the heart ^ory of each successive 
owner of the violin. 

Here I have been for years, hanging 
in my green bag from a ruAy nail in the 
attic, forgotten and negledled by nlan, 
my only friends and companions the 
fairies that come and dance in the moon- 
light on the attic floor. It was they who 
told me of the happy bride that awaited 
her bridegroom’s coming in the quiet old 
house beneath me. One day I was taken 
out into the sunshine and told I was to 
play at her wedding. I put my be^ into 
the tones that greeted the bride when 
she entered the church, and I think tears 
of happiness fell as she passed along 
the dim, cool aisle to meet her lover. 


44 


THE SOUL OF A VIOLIN 


The old church chimed out its wed- 
ding bells, and my sides nearly bur^ 
with joy sending back the merry sounds. 
That night I had much to tell the fairies, 
for again I was in my green bag on my 
ru^y nail in the peaceful, mu^y attic. 

Again, after many years, I have been 
awakened. A sad-faced old lady took 
me out of my bag and put me into the 
hands of a youth, saying: “This, my son, 
is the violin that was played at my wed- 
ding.” I breathed a sigh of gratitude, 
for his touch was a caress, and I saw the 
soul of my old ma^er looking through 
his eyes. And joy of joys, when he 
pulled his bow across my brings, I sent 
up a prayer of thankfulness that we were 
together again. My dear, dear ma^er 
that created me and made me laugh 


45 


THE SOUL OF A VIOLIN 
when he was merry, and cry when he 
was sad! All the long years of waiting 
were forgotten as the youth tucked me 
under his arm and descended the creaky 
old ^airs. Never again shall I be neg- 
ledted, but shall live in light and sunshine, 
vibrating happiness in this world, and 
foretelling the wonders and beauties of 
the world to come, where there are no 
green bags, no ru^y nails or long, tire- 
some intervals of waiting for my maker’s 
hand to play upon my finger board and 
make my sounding po^s dance with joy. 

My maker’s soul told me of his 
journeys to other planets, and of his 
longing to return to earth to fulfill all 
his dreams and do the good he had 
left undone, and how with my help he 
now hoped to reach the heart of man. 
Together we would inspire the youth to 


46 


THE SOUL OF A VIOLIN 


play the songs of love and happiness, and 
the plaintive song of sorrow that would 
show the way to the higher life, to the 
soul, to God. 

Thus we journey together on the 
cre^ of melody’s wave, reaching the 
higher as well as the mo^ lowly, for 
where is the soul dumb to the language 
of music, and not the better for the 
under^anding of it? We have borrowed 
the youth’s hand and heart to express 
a message from another world, bringing 
hope to the hopeless, love to the lonely, 
and peace and quiet to the re^less. 



47 



THE STORY OF THE GOLDFISH 



THE STORY OF THE GOLDFISH 



ANY thousand years ago two 
goldfish lived in the fountain 
of an Indian princess. The 
marble court was a mass of 
color with its great pots of 
’marigolds bathed in sunshine. 
Lord and Lady Goldfish had 
I everything they could wish for. 
Their carved alabaster basin- 
home was known far and wide 
in birdland, for nowhere could 
one get such a gloriously cool bath 
in the early dawn as in the courtyard 
with its pavement of many-colored 
marbles. But, with all this, His Lordship 
had discontent and envy in his heart. 
He envied the birds their flight through 


51 


THE STORY OF THE GOLDFISH 


the air. He envied the Princess her 
green jade bracelets, that refledted the 
sun, the sky, and the water, and so spent 
his hours in a ^ate of unre^. But his 
little wife lived her life happily content, 
performing all her duties and fulfilling 
her de^iny as ordained, and at the end 
passing on to a higher ^age, working 
that out, then passing on to higher and 
^ill higher ^ages, until at la^ she 
became a human soul in the form of a 
happy little child. 

One day the child was taken very 
ill, and this brought sadness to many 
hearts. Her illness was long and painful 
and made her too weak for play, so 
for hours she lay watching a pretty 
goldfish swimming in his bowl. During 
the long, dreary days and nights His 
Lordship (for it was none other) told 


52 


THE STORY OF THE GOLDFISH 


her of his presence, and repented of 
his discontent and envy, for it kept him 
always in the same ^age. He never 
improved or advanced, but each rein- 
carnation came back to learn the same 
lesson. 

One long night, as the little child lay 
wakeful, full of pain and suffering, she 
remembered him. Away back in her 
mind she saw the Indian garden and the 
slender, dusky Princess in her dainty 
robes and tinkling silver anklets, the 
happy birds, the marigolds, and the 
china-blue sky. Her heart was filled 
with pity for His Lordship, and during 
the ^ill of the night her beautiful white 
soul imparted to him a knowledge of the 
folly of his ways, and pointed out the 
path of progress to happiness. When 
morning came, it brought peace to the 


53 


THE STORY OF THE GOLDFISH 


pain-racked body, for the soul had flown 
to a higher and better world. And as 
the morning sun flooded the room with 
its golden light, a kindly ray fell on His 
Lordship floating on the surface of the 
water, his pretty tail and fins all limp. 
He too had passed on, making his fir^ 
upward advance in the long chain of 
lives toward the perfedt soul that was 
awaiting him. 



54 




Five hundred copies of this little 
book have been privately printed for 
BLANCHE SELLERS ORTMANN 
and a few of her friends in the month 
of November, Nineteen hundred ten 





PRINTED 
AT THE . 
RAND . . 
McNALLY 
PRESS . . 
CHICAGO 




' ' ■ . 1 

I , 


, . . 

■ ‘ . I ' 


■ < 



I 



0 


DEC 



One copy del. to Cat. Div. ' 


LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



□ □DED[dT7544 




